My soul is making me breakfast. One part me and five parts you, with ingredients that come unbidden with flesh, bone and a beating heart. They sit half forgotten in overstuffed cupboards. Words of empty calories, torn label feelings, and preservatives to keep us safe. The secret stash of our banished selves. Like a child in the night, my soul looks for sweet delights in those forbidden cupboards just out of reach. It finds the fragile jar of your heart whose tight lid finally gives way to two tender hands, one placed just here in the center and one there. Requiring only a twist of intention, the jar opens while you rest far away in my arms. Spoiled contents overwhelm. Two parts fear, two parts pain, and a lifetime of sorrow. Add to the mix one part unlovable from the box hiding on the top shelf of my bones. My soul knows not how to simmer or saute. Blending the plundered stash, its powerful and whisper quiet motor makes me breakfast. I sip our blended lives, going down like some sort of nourishment, some sort of daily ritual, some sort of longing. "What's in this?" I ask, as tears roll in like rain clouds stealing the sun. One part me, five parts you, six parts us. Declining to taste it, you nibble at the too sweet pie sitting easily on the counter, just bought yesterday. "No need to look in the cupboards," you say.